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The Drome stank of biz, a metallic tang of nervous tension. Muscle-boys scattered through
the crowd were flexing stock parts at one another and trying on this, cold grins, some of them
so lost under superstructures of muscle graft that their outlines weren't really human. Pardon
me. Pardon me, friends. Just Eddie Bax here, Fast Eddie the Importer, with his professionally
nondescript gym bag, and please ignore this shit, just wide enough to admit his right hand.
Ralfi wasn't alone. Eighty kilos of blond California beef perched alerty in the chair next to his,
martial arts written all over him. Fast Eddie Bax was in the chair opposite them before the
beef's hands were off the table.